


Creative Writing 1100 Week Four Exploratory Writing

by BunnyBoi1998, Nikkie2571



Series: Creative Writing 1100 assignments [5]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Pedophilia, It's very vague, Maybe - Freeform, Mind Reading, On Purpose, techinically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:26:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26866615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BunnyBoi1998/pseuds/BunnyBoi1998, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikkie2571/pseuds/Nikkie2571
Summary: come up with a "What if?" question, and use it as the way into a story which bridges the ordinary and the extraordinary. Write your question at the top of your page, then set a timer and write for 15 minutes expanding on the question, and what kind of characters, situations, worlds and settings it suggests to you (in other words, not necessarily writing a story but making notes, although if you want to dive right into narrative, that's fine too).----My Seed Question: What if eyes really were the window to the soul?----Eyes can tell you a lot about someone, that's why it's better not to look. There are some things you're better off not knowing.
Series: Creative Writing 1100 assignments [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926208
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	Creative Writing 1100 Week Four Exploratory Writing

**Author's Note:**

> I found this exercise kinda... difficult. I'm not the best at coming up with ideas or prompts. I'm much better at coming up with ideas to expand upon them. The few original ideas I've made have been good, full thoughts, but they're very rare. I found that in pushing myself to come up with an idea and then, mostly because I felt rushed and unsure about this assignment, not doing the expanding / note taking required to flesh out the idea that the final product was kinda ... meh. Like, I kinda expected that result, but it really surprised me just much I could feel the way the story didn't meet my usual quality standards.

I don’t like to look other people in the eyes. The things you can see in them, the flashing blurs of memories and sensations and events that make up a person flying past through them. The glow of their very character… it’s a lot to take in.

Mum’s eyes are blue, and in them I can see my dad, younger, a little hardier. I can see her brothers and her friends and her parents. And me. I can see the pale yellow glow of her actual soul behind it all. Mum’s soul is beautiful and she’s the only person I let myself look at.

Sometimes, I look in the mirror and wonder what my own eyes look like to others, but all I see staring back at me is pale green, dark in the middle from the pupil. Just as other people would see me in photographs and movies. No light, no shade, no images. Nothing.

Mum kisses the side of my head as she serves me breakfast, humming a tune I don’t know the name of. The radio is on, but the music playing is quiet and definitely isn’t what she’s humming. I look up at her and I see in her eyes The Beatles reflected back at me, album covers and CD and records flashing by as memories converge before I see her dancing with a friend, with dad, by herself, with me, with her mum. It’s over in nearly the blink of an eye and yet I somehow missed none of it.

“What are you humming?” I ask.

Mum smiles down at me, the glow in her eyes seeming to sparkle with her amusement and joy.

“Just a song, an old song,” she says. “One full of memories.”

I smile back. Mum must have been feeling really happy if she shared that with me. You don’t share close memories with someone unless you want them to know a lot more about you very quickly. Everything inside of you is so tangled up with everything else that pulling at important memories like that is bound to pull up something unpleasant or deeply personal.

When dad died no one even looked at me for a week. I wondered if it was because they were afraid of what they’d see, or because they were told to. I still don’t know. I don’t think I want to know.

Just as I’m finishing off my breakfast the bus pulls up outside and I launch myself out of seat, quickly shoving on my shoes and backpack. I stand in front of the door and after a second it opens, revealing not the driver I expected. Not the one other person I had, usually by accident, seen the eyes of. No, the driver was unknown and when he looked at me all I could see was clouds of dark. Purple and shifting and hungry.

I stood very still for a second before slowly making my way to my seat, stiff limbed and scared out of my mind. How did they let such a person in, how had they looked in his eyes and thought he was okay to work on this bus?

I look up and I see him looking back at me, a smile on his face, and I look away. I hunch over myself as the bus starts to move and I wonder if it’s something he saw in me that made his soul turn so dark.


End file.
